


Smoke and Shadow

by kailthia



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: A little, Kinda AU, M/M, angsty ending, canon-compliant ending (well nearly), kind of romantsy, maligned carpets, so canon compliant if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1238185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kailthia/pseuds/kailthia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A  sick Thorin stumbles into Bag End four years before the Quest for Erebor. Slightly AU. Bagginshield. M for a reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In the 2939th year of the Third Age of the Sun, a party of Dwarves, led by one Thorin Oakenshield (son of Thráin, son of Thrór), were traveling back to the Blue Mountains from Bree after having successfully negotiated an agreement defining the trade of dwarven metal goods for food for the next year. They had not gone far, however, when it was discovered that the bout of severe influenza that had been plaguing the town had managed to transfer itself to the dwarves, despite their notorious resilience. A stop in travel was called for, but after several days had passed, Thorin and two others were left as the only members of the thirty-member party in any state of health, and those three showed evidence of succumbing to the illness.   
A short conference between the three decided that Thorin – as leader and least sick besides – would go and seek help in general and medical aid in particular from whomever he could, most likely some of the hobbit-folk, dull as they were – and Óin would manage the camp. After stoking a pack with the necessary supplies, gathering his gear, and fixing the position of the camp, Thorin had set off within the day. The first places he had gone to had been approached in vain – the hobbits farmsteading in the outlying areas were suspicious of strangers, and doubly so of one who was increasingly obviously ill. Thorin’s already-questionable sense of direction was worsened by the fever beginning to rack his stocky body. When he eventually stumbled into Hobbiton in the very early morning three days later, he was delirious, had lost all of his gear and his outer layers of clothing in an attempt to modulate his core body temperature, and was actively being avoided by those few who crossed his path at the early hour. As he stumbled up the Hill towards Bag End, he reached the end of his strength, and the dwarf collapsed in front of a green-painted round door set into the hillside. Several hours later, the owner of that particular hobbit-hole (for that was what it was), one Bilbo Baggins, opened his door to have check his mail-box and have a smoke when he noticed the unconscious dwarf.  
“Oh, my,” he said, and dropped his pipe.  
oOoOoOoOoOo  
The local healer – Cora Chubb – was duly called, and the unknown, unconscious dwarf hauled unceremoniously but carefully into the best guest bedroom to be examined. Said examination led to a diagnosis of influenza turned to pneumonia, exhaustion, and a general lack of care. Bilbo thanked Mistress Chubb, paid her, and saw her out, after which he went back to his best guest bedroom, looked down at the sick dwarf, and sighed. He supposed that he had to keep an eye on this mystery dwarf until he – Bilbo presumed that it was a he – had recovered from the worse of his illness; it was only right. He sighed; at least it was late enough in the fall that he would not miss anything important in the gardening social circle if he dropped off the map for the next few days or weeks.   
Bilbo stepped outside for a moment to call young Hamfast Gamgee away from the front gardens, getting him to mind the invalid while Bilbo made preparations to mind him for the day – primarily getting a few choice books from his study and making up a few trays of food, as well as setting yesterday’s half-eaten chicken in a pot with some water in a corner to slow-boil down to stock. He then sent Hamfast back to his uncle and the garden. Before curling up in the armchair in the guestroom with A Discussion of the Flora of the Southfarthing, Bilbo had checked the still-unknown dwarf, and seeing him no worse, dribbled some water and some of Mistress Chubb’s flu remedy down his throat.   
By mid-afternoon, the dwarf was beginning to stir, but did not rouse. Bilbo, annoyed, stoked up the fire, put some extra blankets on the bed, and wrangled some more medicine into the stranger before delving back into his book. It was nearing dawn when Bilbo was roused from the chair – he had fallen asleep over his second book, A History of Selected Families of the Shire – by a string of loud and, from the lack of repetition inventive, curses in what Bilbo could only assume was Khâzdul. Bilbo shook himself awake and hurried over to the bed. The dwarf was awake, and from the alertness of his eyes was fairly lucid. Seeing Bilbo loom over him (as much as the little hobbit could loom), he rasped out, “Where am I?”  
“At Bag End, in Hobbiton, in the Shire,” replied Bilbo judiciously. He wasn’t sure how much of his last few days the dwarf would remember, so felt it best to be as specific as possible.   
The dwarf blinked. “Who are you?”  
“I am Bilbo Baggins. This is my smial you’re staying in. And you are?”  
“Thorin Oakenshield. How …” Thorin coughed weakly and rubbed mucus onto the sleeve of his pajamas, further taking away from what remained of what Bilbo considered a rather majestic air ruined by illness, tiredness, and bedhead “How long have I been here?”  
Bilbo looked out the window and saw the lightening of the sky in the east. “Almost a day now. You were, and remain, quite ill.”  
Thorin looked up at the ceiling, but there was humor mixed with the tiredness in his voice. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”   
Bilbo gave Thorin a withering glance. “Well, since your fever seems to have broken, you should try to sleep. I, for one, and going back to my own room to sleep for a few hours, having sat up with you all night.” He reached for the bottle of medicine. “But before I go, you should take some medicine. I don’t want to wake up to the noise of you snuffling and hacking for at least three hours.”  
Thorin suffered to be fed the syrup, after which Bilbo, true to his word, had gone to his own room. As the two drifted off, they both wondered what they had gotten into.


	2. Chapter 2

Bilbo woke at noon. After lying in his bed blinking at his ceiling trying to figure out why he had slept so late, he heard a hacking cough from the next room over and remembered. Sighing, he got up, gave himself a quick wash, and dressed, then stopped by the kitchen, where he got a short breakfast (for a hobbit) and strained the bones and gunk out of the broth he had put on the night before, putting some of what was left in a bowl for the dwarf – Thorin, if he recalled his name correctly. Picking up the bowl, a spoon, and a mug of water, Bilbo headed over to check on his unsolicited guest. When he got to the door, he stopped and stared in jaw-dropping shock.  
In what Bilbo suspected was an attempt to reach the chamber pot, Thorin had gotten out of bed. Too weak to stand properly, he had collapsed in an undignified heap by the bed. Though his weakness had not prevented him from vomiting on the carpet, a mathom originally brought to Bag End by Bilbo’s mother Belladonna Took. Thorin was now awake again, but had apparently recognized the futility of getting up again, so was lying on the floor, coughing, sneezing, and generally discomfited.  
After Bilbo’s shock had passed, he dragged the soiled carpet away from Thorin and began to maneuver the dwarf back into the bed. This was no small achievement, as Bilbo was smaller and much slighter than Thorin, and the dwarf was in no condition to be of assistance. Eventually, Bilbo succeeded in wrangling the dwarf back into the bed.  
Bilbo looked despairingly at the dwarf currently sweating and shaking on the bed in front of him. He huffed.  
“Well, you’re a sorry excuse for a dwarf, Master Thorin. Your folk are supposed to be sensible, but all I’ve seen out of you is stubbornness to make a stone look hasty!”  
Thorin smiled faintly. “I am a dwarf, Master Baggins. We are creatures of stone, so stubbornness is in our blood.”  
Bilbo sniffed. “Well you’re not going to get better if you don’t stay in bed and rest. I’ve brought you some soup, so you need to eat it, take some medicine, and sleep.”  
Thorin grumbled, but did as he was told. After Thorin had fallen asleep, Bilbo stoked the fire – for all it was properly speaking still too warm for a fire on the hearth all the time, the room needed to be kept warm to help healing – picked up the dirty dishes, and grabbed the soiled carpet by a corner. Bilbo knew that if he was to have any hope of getting the stains out of his mothers’ carpet he would have to be quick with the stain-removal compound he kept in the kitchen for just such occasions. He tutted and shook his head. That dwarf! What gall, to be so stupidly stubborn!  
oOoOoOoOoOo  
Thorin grumbled to himself as he contemplated the idea of getting out of bed. He needed a drink of water, and there was a full pitcher and a cup on the table across the room. He had been at the … smial? … belonging to this Bilbo Baggins for three days, and had not tried to get out of bed alone since the embarrassing events with the carpet. Since Thorin had been unable to muster the strength to take care of himself, the little hobbit had manhandled him in order to feed him, push nasty medicine down his throat, change the bedding, his nightclothes, or assist him in washing himself.  
Just remembering the washing caused Thorin to wince. Master Baggins turned into a squeaky little thing when embarrassed, and his insistence that Thorin needed a cleaning-up was matched by their mutual embarrassment when they realized that Thorin was too weak to do it himself. The hobbit had been especially surprised by the tattoos marking Thorin’s arms and chest, and even the explanation that they marked the various duties that he was to remember at all times – to family, clan, people – did not shake Bilbo’s evident confusion as to why someone would mark themselves in such a way.  
Thorin contemplated the water jug again. He figured that if he held on to the furniture, he could go around the wall and hopefully not fall on his face again. Even if no one but that insipid hobbit saw him, it wasn’t seemly for the heir of Durin to fall on his face. Hauling himself up, he slowly made his way towards the table, grateful that at least everything in Bilbo’s home was at least approximately the right size. He had spent enough time in the world of men to take the slightly-too-small things here (even the pinchingly tight nightclothes) with a thankful prayer.  
He made it to the table and gratefully fell into the chair, breathing heavily. Pouring himself a drink proved a challenge, and he slopped some water around before filling the cup to a decent level. He drank thirstily, then replaced the cup and eyed the bed disdainfully. He thought that he might sit for a bit. This decision, of course, had nothing to do with the fact that he was unsure if he could get back to his bed safely. He hoped that Bilbo would check on him soon, as his appetite was beginning to return somewhat, and even the thin gruels and soups the hobbit prepared tasted delicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tattoo thing is a bit of a headcannon, so just roll with it. I’m sort of going off of stuff from the films for it, though in general I am trying to stay closer to the books.  
> Thirdly, I would like to point out that while Thorin seems a little ‘prissy’ (almost Bilbo-ish) in terms of his concern for appearances, I’d like to think that, as the heir to a kingdom, he knows that appearances are important, and how important keeping a ‘leader’ mein is to having people follow you is. So he puts efforts into looking/acting a bit extra regal, though a lot of it is his natural pride/dignity.


	3. Chapter 3

“How long have I been here, Master Baggins?” growled Thorin one morning as the hobbit brought in some toast and soup. The dwarf had been getting increasingly restless lately; he had overcome the worst of the illness, but was still weak, and it chafed to have to stay in bed most of the time. 

Bilbo looked up at him and then wrinkled his nose as he thought, counting out loud, though instead of counting on his fingers like a dwarf or a Man might have done, the hobbit wriggled a toe for each number. “About two weeks.”

Thorin chocked on the water he had just drunk in shock. “Two ….two weeks? How?”

Bilbo clucked, reminding Thorin very strongly of a broody chicken. “You kept on overexerting yourself and making your illness worse, Thorin. Poor Mistress Chubb despairs of you.”

“I don’t really care about the healer’s opinion, Master Baggins. But I do need to get back to my kinfolk. They need me.” Thorin attempted to raise himself off the bed, but had to sit down heavily a moment after getting upright. 

Bilbo looked at him skeptically. “You’re not going anywhere.” Seeing Thorin’s determined look, Bilbo had a sudden flash of inspiration. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll get one of the messenger service to take a message and some supplies over to your people, and I’ll pay him enough so that he can lead them back here, or bring back a return message if they prefer. Goodness knows I have enough space.”

Thorin was baffled by the hobbit’s generosity. He was clearly a fluffle-headed idiot. Though one with excellent cooking skills and an open hand for his friends. Thorin didn’t see any way to get a message to his people, so felt duty-bound to accept Bilbo’s proposal. Though he did not like going so far into his host’s debt.

“Alright then. Will you get me writing implements so I can write this message?”  
An hour and a half later, one of the messenger hobbits was off to the area where Thorin had left his companions, on a bright-eyed pony laden down with medicine and solid food from Bilbo’s pantry, as well as a Cirth-message for Óin. Thorin did not want his all of companions to wait for him, figuring that he would be some time in recovering, most of the party could head home, and perhaps one or two could remain in Bag End, as he had learned that his temporary place of residence was called. He did not want to impose overmuch on Master Baggins; he did not know how he was going to repay what he already owed. 

The messenger came back flying back with the evening sun, packs empty but full of news. After being welcomed in with a cup of string tea and a small plate of biscuits, he addressed the dwarf and the hobbit.

“I found the group I was sent for right by the Brandywine Bridge, Master Baggins. I gave over the message and the supplies to Óin son of Gróin, dwarf of the Blue Mountains, as requested, but was told that no one would return with me. Master Óin told me that five members of the party have died of their illness, and so he is returning to the mountains in haste so that they can be given proper burials. He will send someone back to fetch you as soon as he can, since no one can be spared at the moment.”

Thorin went still. He always felt responsible for any death of his people, but these ones were of the worst sort – senseless death. He came to himself again after a few moments when he realized that the messenger-hobbit was fiddling with his feather-bedecked hat, obviously with more message to impart. 

“One last thing, Master Dwarf. Master Óin said that – excusing the impertinence – that if you don’t come back in one piece than he isn’t explaining your death to Lady Dís.” From the worried expression on his face, the poor hobbit didn’t understand the message – but then, why should he? But Óin was right; if he died, Dís would have his head and then find a way to resuscitate Thorin so that she could have the pleasure of killing him again. 

Bilbo, seeing that the messenger was through, tipped him and showed him out. Sensing that Thorin wanted some time alone, he stayed away until suppertime; from the noises in the kitchen Thorin assumed that the hobbit was on a baking spree, an assumption that was verified when Bilbo appeared at half six with what he called ‘a light meal,’ a small feast by anyone else’s standards. Thorin had learned that hobbits were – enthusiastic – about food the hard way, staring in unabashedly when, at the first meal that he had eaten with Bilbo, the hobbit had eaten enough for two grown dwarves. The two ate in silence for several minutes. Thorin could see that Bilbo was full of questions, and finally the hobbit’s inquisitiveness won out. Cocking his head at Thorin, he asked, “Is the Dís the messenger mentioned your wife? She sounds rather fearsome.”

Thorin laughed, then grimaced as the movement jolted his lungs. “Dís is my sister. And she is fearsome. She worries much, though not without cause. Our brother died in war, her husband during a cave-in. Her sons and I are all she has left of close kin.”

Bilbo tutted. “That’s too bad. Well, we just have to see that you get back to her safely.” Bilbo nodded firmly, giving an image of determination that was spoiled by a small giggle. “I have the feeling that if I did not send you off in full health I would have an angry dwarf lady knocking on my door in short order, out for my blood!”

The resulting image was too much for Thorin, who suspected that his sister could have Master Baggins for breakfast if she was truly angered; he laughed until he was seized in a paroxysm of coughing. “Well then, Master Baggins, we shall have to see that it does not come to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that Bilbo is much less formal than Thorin, so he would slip into first-name usage sooner, hence the differences in address. Also, the idea of debts/duty/honor is big for dwarfs. .. if they feel they owe/are owed, there will be repayment. And we don’t know anything about Dís’ spouse, so I’m just assuming here. If anyone knows anything about him, feel free to tell me.


	4. chapter 4

            Once Thorin had been convinced that the only thing that would cure him was rest, he focused on recovering with his usual intensity. He still slept a great deal, but found himself awake for a little longer each day, and more alert in the bargain. He found himself eating like a pig, though he wasn’t sure how much of this was due to hos body’s need to replenish itself and how much was due to Bilbo’s excellent cooking. Apparently cookery was a skill the hobbits had raised to an art form. Thorin figured that he might as well enjoy the opportunity while he could; while many dwarves were decent cooks, food was typically viewed by dwarves as merely the fuel that stoked the body, causing many dwarves to not bother much with what they shoved in their mouths most of the time. Yet Bilbo seemed incredibly concerned with what he ate, and seeing the results, Thorin had to agree that a little more care was helpful. Not that he could taste much of it with his nasal congestion.

            Thorin found Bilbo incredibly infuriating most of the time, and knew that the feeling was mutual. The habits of hobbits and dwarves differed in many areas, causing a significant amount of culture clash. And Bilbo would occasionally stare at Thorin balefully and mutter something about a carpet when he thought that the dwarf wasn’t looking. Overall, tensions between the exiled King Under the Mountain and the master of Bag End were rising, though masked by a screen of politeness. Bilbo was a self-proclaimed gentlehobbit and wouldn’t dream of (knowingly) offending a guest, and Thorin was too self-aware of his kingly dignity to offend someone who was, after all, only trying to help and had been quite generous with his time, money, and household supplies.

oOoOoOoOoOo

            Two days afterwards, Thorin had asked after his clothes. He had been stuck in the nightclothes provided by Bilbo for some weeks (thankfully more than one set, given the various fluids that the garments had been … introduced … to)  and, while he might not be fully well yet, had come to the conclusion that he would feel better in his own clothes. And to top it off, his clothes had sustained some damage during the trip, and he wanted to mend them, which might take a day or two. The task would keep his mind off of his forced idleness for a few hours. When Bilbo had returned with a bundle of clothes easily recognizable as Thorin’s, the dwarf had shaken them out to look for significantly abused areas, noticing idly that the clothing had been laundered, though some of the stains would never fully come out, blood, soot, vomit, and various other substances being difficult to remove. It was one of the reasons that dwarves preferred dark colors and hard-wearing fabrics. He examined the clothes and looked up at Bilbo.

“These have already been mended.” Thorin kicked himself mentally; he should have clued in when Bilbo had not brought some sort of sewing basket with him.

Bilbo nodded, obviously discomfited. “Yes. I sent your clothes down to the washerwomen who does my things. It seemed easier. Though one of your shirts was ruined – it was more hole than shirt. I had the laundresses do up a new one on the pattern of the old, as they also dabble in sewing; hopefully it will do you until you return to your people. Though I don’t know why your people need to wear so many _layers_.”

Thorin looked down, noticing that a shirt had indeed been replaced; he had not noticed earlier as the item in question was one of the plainer ones, plain in color and lacking any decorative embroidery. He sighed.

“Dwarves … like to be more covered up than hobbits. We tend to prefer colder areas – mines, caves and such – and also work in dangerous areas like forges and mines. That, combined with the fact that our clothing is also designed to fit around armor, means than many layers are typically a boon.”

Bilbo thought that through, then shrugged. “Makes sense, I suppose.” He was silent a moment, then spoke again. “I think that your armor still needs some work. Maybe you can tend to it later, since you look a bit peaky now. Shall I bring you some cough medicine so you can take a nap?”

Thorin nodded weakly. “Yes. And, Bilbo …. My thanks for having my clothes seen to.”

Bilbo blushed slightly, ears going red. “It was no trouble,” he squeaked, and left the room.

Thorin exhaled heavily, though the action brought on a fit of coughing. While he was grateful that Bilbo had seen to his clothes, he was now even more indebted to him. As he waited for Bilbo to bring his cough medicine, he considered how in Middle-Earth he was going to be able to repay the hobbit. The only things of value he had with him were things he could not in good conscience part with – his sword and armor, the few pieces of jewelry that he had on his person – for either he would need them to return to the Blue Mountains or their personal value to him far outweighed any salability. And he had no tools to make something. So a tangible gift was likely out. Though perhaps … thinking back to the hobbit’s blush … there might be something he could do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so things move forward!   
> A note about Thorin wanting to mend his clothes – I think that Thorin, as an unmarried dwarf who travels a lot, would be able to do at least basic mending/repairs to clothes. Dwarves are very crafty by nature and some mending (i.e., replacing a simple button/clasp, repairing a small hole./rip, etc.) would be necessary. And the Dwarves aren’t as sexist as many of the other races, so I feel that they would be inclined to treat what some might consider “feminine” skills like cooking, sewing as just basic life skills, especially since so many of them don’t marry.


	5. Chapter 5

Thorin breathed through his nose, grateful to be able to do so freely once again. While he was still a little weak, he was almost back to normal. The extra few days of rest – and the nasty concoctions the hobbit healer had left – had put him back on his feet quickly, no small thanks to the strong dwarven constitution. Thorin had attempted to help Bilbo with some small things around the house as his strength returned, but had discovered that, for a hobbit, doing pretty much anything to help one’s host was a great insult to said host, though by the satisfaction Bilbo exhibited when he persistently proffered his aid, these offers were typically given and refused often among hobbit-kind. Crazy hobbits.

            Thorin puffed on his pipe, happy for once to be outside enjoying the early afternoon sunshine. He was sitting on the bench outside the door of Bilbo’s _smial_ , smoking and taking the air. While he was usually more of an inside dwarf – almost all dwarves were inside dwarves – he had to admit that the flower-laden fresh air was … refreshing … after his illness. And the small children that were frolicking around near the base of the hill were a welcome sight. Thorin had discovered that he liked children after helping with the raising of his nephews after his sister’s husband’s death. He found the cheerfulness of these little hobbits especially soothing as many dwarf children had experienced too much hardship and pain to be happy.

            His gazed passed over the children to the pile of leather and metal armor drying in front of the house. Thorin had needed to go over it several times to get the dirt and mess out of it, the last being that very morning. With his armor finally up to scratch, Thorin was nearly ready to return to his people in the Blue Mountains, and he was itching to get back. He was over a month late, and Dís was going to skin him. If he was lucky. All he had to do was collect some supplies for the journey and repay the hobbit. Given that Bilbo said that there was a large rainstorm heading toward Hobbiton (and the large, rain-heavy clouds on the horizon backed him up), Thorin knew that he wouldn’t be able to leave for a few days. So he still had time to implement his plan…

oOoOoOoOoOo

            Bilbo was happily puttering away in his kitchen, putting the finishing touches on the cake that he was icing. It was the last part of the farewell dinner that he had made for Thorin, who was heading home in the morning. He was of two minds regarding the dwarf’s departure. While he would be glad to see the back end of that despoiler of carpets in many ways, Bilbo had developed a bit of a soft spot for the dwarf, annoying though he might be.

            After dinner was over, the hobbit and the dwarf had gone to the parlor. Bilbo, always eager for tales of adventure, was happy to listen to Thorin talk of his travels. Thorin was amused by the hobbit’s enthusiasm – Bilbo seemed to set in his ways as a simple, stay-at-home gentlehobbit, but every once in a while he showed some inner strength and curiosity. This was particularly odd given that Bilbo was threatening a rather majestic and threatening-looking dwarf who was larger than himself by a good bit, albeit one who had been crippled by illness for much of the past weeks. Thorin had been happy to talk about the better parts of his travels – interesting geographical features, friends made, work done, some of the cuter escapades of his younger kinsfolk – while carefully editing out the less enjoyable parts, the death, loss, and deprivation. The hobbit was a soft little thing, and if trouble was content to leave Bilbo alone, Thorin didn’t want to drag it in. The hobbit was a fortunate little shit for having so much, the more so for not knowing how badly others lived their lives, and Thorin didn’t want to burst his bubble.   

            After several hours of talking – and several cups of Bilbo’s nighttime tea (each liberally splashed with the hobbit’s stash of brandy) – Bilbo was obviously flagging. Thorin, recognizing that the hobbit was too good a host to say he was tired flat out, suggested that they head to their beds, a proposition which Bilbo gladly accepted. Bilbo banked the fire in his parlor and the two put their empty mugs in the kitchen before heading off towards their bedrooms. As they reached Thorin’s room – which, as the best guest bedroom, was next to Bilbo’s suite – the little hobbit began chattering about making sure that Thorin had everything he needed to be comfortable – a spiel that Thorin had heard almost every night since he begun recovering in earnest.

“I am quite content with what you have already provided me, Master Baggins. There is no need to go to greater trouble,” grated out Thorin, rather fed up with Bilbo’s effusiveness. He decided that now was as good as time as any to implement his plan – it might even shut the hobbit up for a few hours. So he reached out, placed a finger on the hobbit’s lips, and when the hobbit (finally!) shut up and looked at him inquisitively, he removed his finger to replace it with his mouth.

After a moment’s enjoyment, he was met by a frantically squirming, struggling and squeaking hobbit, who was evidently trying to get out from between the larger dwarf and the wall. Thorin immediately let Bilbo escape his grasp. “What?” he asked.

“What was _that_ for?” sputtered Bilbo.

Thorin shrugged. “I owe you, Master Baggins. Since you will not let me repay my debt with work and I have nothing else to pay my debt with, I would repay you with what I have – myself.”

Bilbo turned red as a raspberry and squawked again. “That’s not necessary, not necessary at all, Master Oakenshield. Repayment is the last thing on my mind! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to bed! I’ll see you in the morning for first breakfast!” said Bilbo, at which point he stumbled into his room, closed the door firmly, and then collapsed into his chair.

            Thorin went into his own room more slowly, thinking to himself. Bilbo’s outburst was in direct contrast to the good reaction he had had from the hobbit in the first few instants after their lips had met. Thorin was admittedly confused. Was Bilbo refusing his attempts at repayments – a grave insult – or had he honestly been confused by what Thorin had been offering? Perhaps hobbits did not encourage relationships between males as often as dwarves – Thorin had seen that females seemed to account for a larger proportion of the population among hobbits. Either way, breakfast tomorrow was going to be an awkward affair indeed.

oOoOoOoOoOo

            Bilbo lay on his bed, heart and head racing. He knew exactly what Thorin had been offering him, and had been caught between being scandalized and wanting to accept. Same-sex relationships in the Shire were uncommon, and though not precisely anathema, often looked down upon. A good portion of Bilbo suspicious bachelorhood (in hobbit eyes) came from his predilection towards males rather than females, but that did not mean that he was ready to act when a hulking Dwarf _jumped_ him! The gall! While he might not have been adverse to such a proposition under other circumstances, he had been too surprised to react well in this case. Breakfast tomorrow would be extremely awkward. Bilbo humphed. Bedamned dwarf, always messing with his mind.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

     Breakfast the next morning was indeed awkward, with many downcast glances and averted eyes. Thorin was already packed, so all that remained was to put together the last-minute items and see the dwarf off. An hour after breakfast’s end, Thorin and Bilbo stood at the gate of Bag End, doing their best to mask their discomfiture under stiff politeness.

“Well, good-bye, Master Oakenshield. I do hope that your lady sister does not take too many chunks out of your hide, or feel the need to visit Hobbiton to take some out of mine.”

“Farewell, Master Baggins. May the hair on your toes never fall out, and your pantries remain pleasantly full!” With that, Thorin set off down the path in the direction of the Blue Mountains.

oOoOoOoOoOo

            Four years later, a wizard came up that same garden gate to be greeted by a heartfelt ‘Good Morning!’ by that very same hobbit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, this was fun to write. A bit long, but necessary to get everything in. And no, it’s not over yet – the next stage is the Quest!   
> Thorin is very good with his nephews, so I think he’d be at least decent with kids. And I don’t take the crap about ‘big tough fighter guy can’t handle kids’ and/or ‘big tough fighter guy is really a giant sook and loves children’ – tropes, people! But in all seriousness, I think that Thorin might enjoy the presence of children b/c they remind him of his past and what he hopes for the future.   
> And for the awkwardness, just think of Martin Freeman’s Bilbo in the scenes where the dwarves invade Bag End but about times a million.


	6. Chapter 6

Bilbo was at a loss. His home had been invaded once again by the offspring of Aulë, though now he had twelve – twelve! – dwarves (and a wizard) in his kitchen eating his pantry bare. Bilbo was hard pressed to keep all of his unexpected guests fed and content, as they all wanted different things. Some of the dwarves were especially intimidating, particularly the large dwarf with the scalp tattoos and the booming voice – was his name Dwalin? And the two youngest-looking ones, Fíli and Kíli, they were obviously scamps. Reminded him of some of his Took and Brandybuck cousins.

            The dish escapade had left Bilbo in a tizzy when the doorbell rang once more. In a total snit, Bilbo hurried to the entrance hall, threatening foul punishments (for a hobbit) on whomever dared to bother him now. He thrust the door open to find … Thorin Oakenshield? The hobbit and the dwarf gaped at one another, both at a loss for words.

Thorin recovered first, sweeping inside to joyous exclamations form Fíli and Kíli – it seemed that he was their uncle. After a moment, he turned back to Bilbo. Only his eyes betrayed any (slight) indication that he had any prior knowledge of the owner of the smial he was in.

“So … this is the hobbit?”

oOoOoOoOoOo

            Thorin was hard-pressed to keep his composure. He knew exactly who he was dealing with, and he was trying his best not to go running from the smial in embarrassment. Thorin counted it a great victory that he was giving an impression of calm, collected dignity as he addressed Bilbo, chalking it up to many years of royal training.

            On his way into the Shire, he had hoped to be able to avoid the home of the hobbit who had aided his recovery four years previously, if only to save himself some unnecessary embarrassment. He had been delayed somewhat by managing to get lost around Michel Delving, though he soon found himself on the right track when he found the trail-signs left by Balin. When he had finally arrived at the appointed destination (unfashionably late, but it couldn’t be helped), he had spent several minutes staring at the round green door in sheerest, slack-jawed horror before hiding behind a tree to see if there was any way he could salvage the situation. He could only hope that Bilbo didn’t remember him, and that if he did, he would keep his mouth shut.

            He had decided that there was just no helping it – from the singing inside, the rest of the party had arrived and was having a high old time mooching off of Bilbo’s hospitality. He screwed up his courage, walked up to the door, prayed to Mahal that Bilbo had forgotten all about him, and knocked loudly on the door.

oOoOoOOoOo

            Bilbo had most decidedly not forgotten about Thorin Oakenshield. The dwarf was more infuriating than before, insulting him left, right and center, and saying the most atrocious things, including what seemed to be excruciatingly thinly-veiled sexual allusions. The only thing stopping Bilbo from calling him out immediately was the sneaking suspicion that none of the other dwarves would believe that their king-in-exile (and wasn’t _that_ a surprise) had spent several weeks puking his guts out in one of Bilbo’s guest rooms. So Bilbo kept his peace, though he glared daggers at Thorin when Fíli spilt marmalade on the carpet that Thorin had, years before, vomited on, now in pride of place in the parlor, and later when Kíli dropped his tankard of beer near it, soaking a corner thoroughly, and then again when Thorin dropped the gravy boat dead center on the carpet, managing to ruin both the carpet and the gravy boat. Thorin had had the decency to wilt a little under the onslaught. 

oOoOoOoOo

            Some hours later, Bilbo stared up at his ceiling in disgust. Bedeviled dwarves, wanting him to face a dragon – incineration, evisceration, the whole hog. And Master Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, who hadn’t even had the decency to say a proper greeting to the hobbit who had _saved his life_ , let alone apologize for insulting him. Bilbo was not pleased. He also had strong doubts about this Quest – it seemed a load of hogwash. Fancy wanting a Baggins to go on a Quest! Bagginses didn’t do Quests, or adventures, or anything out of the ordinary. Though, thought Bilbo as he dropped off to sleep, maybe this particular Baggins could be convinced to go on an adventure. A pair of bright blue eyes in a song-filled face (disturbing imagery to be sure) rose up in his mind’s eye, watching him as he fell asleep. Yes, maybe there could be an adventure for this Baggins….

            In the nest room over, Thorin was thanking Mahal that Bilbo had not called him out in front of the Company. The evening had made the dwarf more religious than he had been in years. While it was clear to him that Bilbo hadn’t forgotten about him, it was obvious that Bilbo wasn’t going to make a public scene. Thorin did, however, suspect that, if and when there was an opportunity for privacy, there would be a scene of epic proportions. He couldn’t predict the end result – Bilbo might fly into a rage, but with the way that the hobbit’s eyes had lingered on his behind, there could be … other endings. Only time would tell. Thorin closed his eyes, and hummed as he willed himself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going a bit into movie-verse where Thorin arrives late and alone versus with the ‘ur’ brothers and the ‘ri’’s. And yes, that poor, abused carpet made a comeback. Bilbo’s mother is turning in her grave at the damage it’s taking. And Bilbo’s still rather snitty here, but he’ll come around. This one is short, but I didn’t want to impinge on the already-well-established unexpected party scenes from book and movie. And this is mostly setup for later. *Maniacal laughter*


	7. Chapter 7

            Fíli and Kíli knew that something was up between their uncle and the hobbit. The sheer amount of tension between them – often from arguments, but Kíli staunchly believed (between the shudders of horror) that no small part of it was, in fact, sexual – made that clear, no matter how ardently that Thorin insisted that Bilbo was useless weight on the Quest and Bilbo made unhappy noises about how much of an arrogant, pompous ass Thorin was. 

            The two young dwarves strongly suspected that Thorin and Bilbo had met somewhere before, though for the life of them they could not imagine why. But the way Bilbo and Thorin bantered and argued back and forth, the way they knew each others’ habits a little better than they should after only two weeks of travel together, was extraordinarily suspicious. And Thorin seemed to be keeping a cautious eye on the hobbit, making sure that he didn’t come to any significant harm. He had had sharp words with those among the Company who teased Bilbo overmuch or humiliated him, and Kíli had felt the sharp edge of his uncle’s tongue the day before for his apparent continued mispronunciation of Master Boggins’ clan-name.

Óin was also suspicious. And though the dwarf was nearly deaf, his eyes and his mind were still sharp. He remembered Thorin’s misadventure in the Shire, and wondered if there was any connection between that and Bilbo. And he knew that Thorin had been ill, being told of it when he gave Thorin a going-over after his return to the Blue Mountains and seeing how thin and tired he was. Bilbo’s mutterings about the line of Durin and despoiled carpets made some sense if Thorin had managed to worm his way into his smial with pneumonia – Thorin could well have vomited on a carpet. And Óin had seen Fíli and Kíli drop items on a small carpet at the party. Bilbo’s reaction had been out of proportion even for such a fussy little creature, as if it were a problem he had faced before. 

As the weeks passed, the dwarves compared notes and brought more and more of them into their wonderings. Dwalin and Balin, who knew Thorin best and longest, joined quickly, seeing Thorin’s unusual behavior towards Bilbo and wondering. The brothers Ri came in all at once after Ori was traumatized the night after being chased up the trees by the wargs, as he had gone to relieve his bladder and stumbled on Thorin and Bilbo in a passionate embrace. Óin roped his brother in soon afterwards, and a decent-sized betting pool was set up, pandering on the ingrained money-mindedness of dwarves, combined with an honest desire to see their king-in-exile and their burglar happy. The Urs were last in, and Bofur laughed himself nearly off his pony when he discovered why exactly their glorious leader had hugged their burglar. The betting pool was now of considerable size.

oOoOoOOoOo

It was Dwalin who ended up winning the pot. He had claimed that there would be a sexual encounter between Thorin and Bilbo within forty-eight hours of them finding themselves a proper bed and some privacy, and he was right. His maniacal grin and gleaming eyes meant that the pile of coins and IOUs on the breakfast table in front of him had grown quickly. When Thorin and Bilbo had finally highed themselves out of the room they had barricaded themselves in, Dwalin was still gloating, which earned him a punch from Thorin, who had immediately realized what had happened. Bilbo was slower on the uptake, though when he clued in he had turned cherry-red and sputtered before running out of the room. Thorin had sighed, and gathering some foodstuffs, had gone to explain about the lack of privacy among dwarves to the snickers of his companions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came into my mind on a whim. Since Smoke and Shadow is pretty much from the viewpoint of Thorin and Bilbo, I wanted to see how others in the Company saw them. So this came to mind.   
> Hobbits are fairly unique in Middle-earth in that they have passed-down family names. Individuals might earn personal epithets (e.g. Oakenshield, Wormtongue) or names tied to job/station (Faramir Steward of Gondor, of the House of Húrin), but most individuals were known simply as “s child of y.” But dwarves have the seven great clans of dwarves, and the Company are all or nearly all Longbeards – the clan ruled by the line of Durin, of which Thorin is the heir. So I think that the dwarves would just sub that into hobbit family groups, thinking that Bilbo Baggins is short for ‘Bilbo of the Baggins clan.’ It’s even mostly right, even if there are inordinately more family groupings among hobbits than dwarves. This is the head-canon I’m using for this.


	8. Chapter 8

Thorin closed the door to the room he shared with Bilbo and placed the tray he had brought with him on the floor.

“Are you alright?” he asked Bilbo. The hobbit was curled up on the bed, head in his hands, shaking and whimpering.

“No!” he whimpered. “They all _know_! It’s so embarrassing.”

Thorin sighed, then went across the room and sat on the bed, cradling his hobbit in his arms. “I’m sorry. I should have known that this would be a problem. Dwarves are much more … open about some things than hobbits.”

Bilbo’s snuffles seemed to be easing. “Dwalin didn’t have to gloat so much about all the money he won because of us.”

Thorin smiled. “Dwalin’s known me for many years. I’m not surprised that he won the betting. Though I think after he gets the initial fuss out of his system he’ll make sure that no one bothers us. He’s too concerned about my royal dignity sometimes.” Thorin said that last in an attempt to make his hobbit – for he was definitely his hobbit now – smile again. He enjoyed seeing Bilbo smile.

Bilbo snorted. “And you’re not worried about your kingly dignity? Posturer.”

“It’s important that I present a kingly image to people – people treat others based on what’s on the outside a lot of the time, especially first impressions.”

Bilbo sniffed. “Well, remember that both of my ‘first impressions’ of you were negative – you were quite ill for one and insulting the next.”

Thorin rolled his eyes. “You’re never going to forgive me entirely for that, are you?”

Bilbo gave a watery chuckle and snuggled closer into Thorin’s chest. “Of course you’re forgiven, but I shall trot out the carpet stories whenever I need to guilt-trip you into doing anything.”

Thorin rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to guilt-trip anyone, guilt-trip Dwalin. Or tease him about Nori. He’s Dwalin’s only weakness.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened. “Dwalin and Nori? Why didn’t I know about this?”

“Because they argue so much everyone forgets they’re married.”

Bilbo choked. “Married? But they’re both male!”

Thorin sighed. “And this is why they keep it low-key around non-dwarves. You know that there are many more males than females among dwarves?” Bilbo nodded; the company had been teaching Bilbo some of the less-private aspects of dwarven culture during the trip, mostly to keep him from sticking his foot in his mouth and/or insulting people unnecessarily.

“Well, it is not uncommon for two males to form an attachment and wed. There is, however, an understanding that at least one sibling in a family group must marry to have children. But since Dwalin and Nori both have siblings with children, that’s not an issue.”

Bilbo gaped. “Balin’s married? And Dori?” Bilbo knew that Ori wasn’t married (having listened to the romantic younger dwarf’s bemoaning of the fact too often for his peace of mind), leaving Dori as the only option.

Thorin nodded. “Several of the Company are. They just don’t like talking about it since remembering makes them maudlin. They know that, best case scenario, they won’t get to see their families for years. Worst case scenario, they die and never see them again.”

“Except for Gloín, who talks about his wife and children no end.”

“Gloín talks too much anyway.”

“Like you would know. You would communicate only in grunts and monosyllables if you could get away with it.”

Thorin grinned and hit Bilbo lightly on the shoulder. “You like my grunts and monosyllables, though. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

oOoOoOoOoOo

            Departure from Beorn’s home meant a temporary end to most overt physical relations between the various pairs in the Company. Yet Bilbo found small changes in Thorin’s behavior that he found pleasing. Thorin had quietly and discreetly become more affectionate, and he was less wont to lash out in anger at their companions. Having been alerted to Nori and Dwalin’s relationship, Bilbo also began noticing signs of affection between the pair. He had previously thought their actions mere teasing or roughhousing, but could now see the added layer of affection and warmth.

            Bilbo had suffered a fair bit of teasing at the hands of the Company, but had managed to stem the tide with a mix of returned jibes and threats to put laxative herbs in various peoples’ dinners if they didn’t stop with the allusions, thank you very much. Though Bilbo wasn’t sure who had been more embarrassed by Dwalin’s comments about Thorin’s _swordsmanship_ , Bilbo, Thorin, or the aforementioned’s nephews. Bilbo had actually managed to end that debacle himself, smiling quietly as he enquired whether Nori’s preference for fighting with daggers was indicative of anything. Nori had actually taken the joke with much better grace than Dwalin, who had nearly turned purple with rage and embarrassment.     

oOoOoOoOoOo

            Bilbo was Thorin’s one bright point in Mirkwood. They all were affected by the forest’s darkness, but the little hobbit was less affected than the rest, and he never failed to raise Thorin’s spirits a little bit. Thorin ensured that his bedroll was always close to Bilbo’s, but not so close that he would be tempted to do anything embarrassing. He found himself keeping an eye on the – no, his – hobbit more often, trying to make sure that nothing happened to him. Bilbo’s tendency to fall headfirst into danger was known.

            When the spiders attacked, Bilbo seemed the only one unaffected, and his efforts to save his companions put hope into Thorin’s heart. Hope which slowly faded as the just-rescued Company were captured by elves (Thorin mentally added a few choice expletives for the Firstborn on principle, taken to Thranduil, King of Mirkwood (to whom Thorin actually managed to speak some words which his mother would have washed his mouth out with soap if she had lived to hear of him using or knowing them), and then imprisoned, with Bilbo nowhere in sight. Thorin could only play that Bilbo was fled and not dead. The Company prepared themselves for a long wait, made especially difficult since they could not be sure of each others’ safety and continued wellbeing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo character and plot development and cliffhangers (sort of, since this is covered by DOS and the book)!   
> OK, so this chapter’s content about dwarven marriage culture dips into headcannon. But it seems logical that dwarves would be more accepting of males finding romantic companionship (including but not limited to marriage) with other males since there are so few females. And I have a soft spot for Dwalin/Nori, so when I found an opportunity to fit it in feasibly, I took it. And before you try to rip Bilbo apart for hypocritical angst about Dwalin and Nori being married, I’m going to mention cultural differences. I would posit that for hobbits, same-sex relationships are rather looked down upon, and part of Bilbo’s ‘strangeness’ is that it’s suspected that he’s into that. So the idea of males being married is weird for him, going against what he believes marriage is for – children. While the dwarves are more accepting given that they are also acknowledging other factors such as the joining of families, etc.   
> I’m going by book cannon where the dwarves are all jailed in separate areas to keep information from spreading. Tauriel still exists, just assume she mostly visits Kíli and Fíli, and Thorin doesn’t know the extent of Kíli and Tauriel’s fascination with each other.


	9. Chapter 9

It took Bilbo some days to figure out where his fellow members of the Company were imprisoned. Fortunately, all of them except for Thorin were jailed in the same area, and so Bilbo could keep an eye on them easily and help raise their spirits – mostly passing messages and small objects back and forth. Dori was quite concerned about his younger siblings’ welfare, and Bilbo spent a lot of time convincing the silver-haired dwarf that Nori and Ori were not suffering overmuch. Bilbo wisely decided not to tell Dori about Ori’s rather inventive defacement of his cell walls in neat Sindarin (describing increasingly ingenious and unlikely sexual (mis)adventures involving Thranduil and a growing number of personages and creatures), or that Bilbo had been helping in said endeavor with helpful translation and spelling hints. Though he did tell Nori, who laughed and laughed, then added a few suggestions that made Bilbo face whiten and his mind whir with possibilities.

Thorin had been particularly relieved to see Bilbo. Since he had been brought in separately from the rest of the Company, he hadn’t known if the rest of the group had been alive or dead, lost or found. So hearing Bilbo’s disembodied voice coming in through the bars of his cell door had been as welcome as it had been disconcerting. The limited touching permitted by the bars had enabled the hobbit and the dwarf to make sure that the other was in reasonably good condition, though both of them wished for more. Bilbo would often go to visit Thorin, though the dwarf was often asleep, recovering from the poisons of the spiders in his system. Bilbo had even managed to sneak into Thorin’s cell one evening when the guards came to bring him a meal. They clung to each other through the night, and were heartened, though Thorin complained bitterly about Bilbo’s need to keep his magic ring on, saying that being able to hold his burglar was of limited use when he couldn’t see him.

Thorin and Co.’s trust in Bilbo’s burglary skills to get the Company out of the Elvenking’s castle was greatly worrying to the hobbit – despite what Gandalf might say, he was not a sneaky person, not canny in the least. Bilbo had seriously considered breaking Nori out of his cell to help him finagle their escape, but had concluded that Nori’s disappearance would have caused problems, especially since his ring wouldn’t conceal them both. When the opportunity of escape presented itself, however, Bilbo somehow managed to get everyone out. The look on Thorin’s face when Bilbo had shown up with the keys and the rest of the Company had been wonderful and heartbreaking and more than a little terrifying – Thorin looked caught between jumping Bilbo, making sure his people were in good condition, checking _very carefully_ that Fíli and Kíli were all right (apparently the Lady Dís – and she was always referred to as Lady Dis – had had _words_ with Thorin about the safety of her sons), and getting the hell out of the Elvenking’s palace.

 The trip down the river had been horrible – in his concern for the Dwarves, Bilbo had managed to forget to put himself in a barrel, and had made himself horrifically sick by dint of his long soaking and battering on the trip. Getting shoved in a barrel of fish hadn’t helped either. So the unfortunate hobbit found himself the proud owner of an impressive cold when they got to Laketown. The bargeman’s daughter had been kind enough to give him herbs, but he had spent a miserable day or two before the rest of the company had realized he was ill. He had felt badly about their lack of concern before he realized he had once again forgotten about dwarven hardiness – none of the company other than him had gotten more than minor cuts and bruises. Once they realized that Bilbo was ill, the little hobbit had been cozened within an inch of his life. He had had to swallow a great many of Oín’s foul-tasting potions, and had slept away most of the first three days in Laketown, completely avoiding some trouble with Orcs and a warrior elf-maid and –prince.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, now that I've caught up to my update schedule for ffn, I can update at the same time. So expect waits between chapters from now on ;)
> 
> It’s established in Fellowship that Ori can read/write Sindarin (well, it just says Elvish, but I’m assuming Sindarin b/c it’s more common), as a good portion of Ori’s entries in the Book of Mazarbul were in Sindarin.   
> And I’m going more by bookverse for their time in Laketown. So Kíli didn’t get shot. Since TABA isn’t out yet, and I don’t know how plot stuff will go in the movieverse, I’m going to revert more to book cannon for what’s left of the story.


	10. Chapter 10

“Are you well, Burglar?”

Bilbo turned towards the door of the room he was sharing with Thorin in the house the Company had been given in Laketown when they had arrived several days before. He smiled when he saw Thorin halfway through the door, tray of food in hand.

“Mostly. The congestion’s gone, but I will likely tire easily for the next few days.” That selfsame tiredness was what had him in his room napping away his afternoon while the rest of the Company prepared for the next stage of their journey. Noticing that the tray had cups for two but only food for one, Bilbo looked out the window to see a darkening sky. He had slept through supper; no wonder Thorin was worried.

“I’ll be fine once I have some food in me,” he said, smiling. “Sit with me while I eat?” Thorin nodded and put the tray down on the small table near the bed. They both sat on the abominably over-large chairs and tried not to notice how their feet didn’t touch the floor as Thorin poured tea and Bilbo uncovered the plates. Bilbo ate heartily, and Thorin sipped a mug of tea (Dori had gushed about the blends used in Dale so much that Thorin was curious) and nibbled on a biscuit as he watched his burglar eat. Bilbo still looked rather red-nosed, and he seemed far too skinny – his cheeks were slightly hollowed, and the small bones in his face and the areas of his arms and legs that were uncovered by clothing were far too visible against his skin. Mirkwood and its escape had not been kind to the Company, but Bilbo had been especially hard hit. Bilbo looked up from his food, and frowned exasperatedly at Thorin when he noticed the dwarf staring.

“You needn’t hover. I’m a much better patient then you were.” Thorin smiled.

“You are indeed.” Thorin busied himself with the teapot to forestall any further argument, and was glad when it worked. Bilbo’s preponderance for tea almost rivaled Dori’s, a fact which Thorin found rather amusing.

By the time Thorin finished his cup of tea, Bilbo was nodding over his (once again empty) plate.

“Do you want to go back to bed, Bilbo?” asked Thorin.

“Yes, I do believe I shall,” yawned the hobbit. “This bedamned cold has left me simply exhausted.” He turned to Thorin with a hopeful expression. “Will you stay with me? Just to sleep – I’m afraid I’m not up for anything more.”

Thorin nodded. “Of course. Let me just take these dishes back downstairs and get my sleeping clothes.” He looked at Bilbo critically. “Don’t wait for me – you look asleep on your feet.”

Bilbo nodded and rubbed at his eyes with the balls of his hands. “I feel it.” He turned towards the bed. “Hurry back.” By the time Thorin had gathered the dishes and left the room, Bilbo was curled up in the bed, looking almost childlike in the man-sized piece of furniture. When Thorin returned, Bilbo was fast asleep. Thorin shucked his clothes, armor, and weapons, put on the sleeping tunic and trousers provided him by the Laketowners (fortunately dwarf-sized), took out his braids and beads, and climbed into the bed next to his hobbit, maneuvering somewhat to find a position in which he was reasonably comfortable and in which he could also hold Bilbo close.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

            Early morning sun hit Bilbo’s eyes, and he wriggled in an attempt to get away from the light, still half-asleep. His efforts were foreshortened by his bumping into a very warm, very solid and still very much asleep dwarf who was cuddling him close. Bilbo sighed. Apparently Thorin’s need for close contact while sleeping was more of a habit then he had thought. Squinting against the sun, Bilbo managed to move one of the pillows into a position blocking most of the light from directly hitting his face, and then began to doze. He woke again to the full light of day to a bearded face nuzzling into the back of his neck. Bilbo humphed.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” murmured Thorin.

“Good morning.” Bilbo’s stomach grumbled. “As much as I’d like to while the morning away here,” said Bilbo, sitting up in bed reluctantly, “breakfast seems to be in order.” Disentangling himself from Thorin’s embrace, Bilbo went over to the washstand and performed his ablutions while Thorin watched. The dwarf got out of bed leisurely and went in search of his clothes. Dressed, he laid hands on Bilbo’s comb and began working the tangles out of his hair. Bilbo noticed what he was doing after finishing dressing himself.

“You’ve really got a bird’s-nest in the morning, don’t you?”

Thorin sighed and rolled his eyes. “This is why I usually leave it in a sleeping-braid when travelling. One of the luxuries of stopping is being able to sleep with loose hair.”

“D’you want me to help?”

Thorin looked inordinately pleased at Bilbo’s suggestion. “If you would.” He held out the comb.

After they were both adequately groomed, Thorin and Bilbo went to breakfast. It appeared that the rest of the Company had taken the opportunity to sleep in and indulge in a bit of self-care, as they were all in the spacious kitchen of the house given them, enjoying a leisurely breakfast (for dwarves) while arguing about the benefits of various spices in terms of flavoring sausage. Bilbo and Thorin were greeted boisterously upon their entrance. After they were settled, Óin asked after Bilbo’s health, asking if his symptoms were decreasing.

“I’m practically back to normal, Óin. Thank you for asking.”

Óin smiled. “That’s good, laddie. I must say, it’s nice to deal with a patient that will stay in bed when told to do so the first time.”

Thorin chuckled. “From experience, Bilbo knows about the importance of bedrest.”

Bilbo poked Thorin in the ribs. “Yes, because unlike some people, I don’t have to make an idiot of myself before staying in bed. Or vomit on people who are only trying to help – and their carpets!”

Dead silence.

“What’s this about vomiting on a carpet?”

Bilbo reddened as (once again) the Company’s attention was focused on Thorin and himself, though on a more confused note this time. It was Kíli who had ventured the question – he and Fíli wore almost identical expressions of hopeful curiosity, likely hoping that Bilbo would come out with a story that would give them good dirt on their uncle. Bilbo thought to himself that they would not be disappointed. He breathed out heavily.

“Well, about four years ago, I left my smial one fine morning to check my mail, only to find a passed-out dwarf on my front steps…”

Óin gave a sudden laugh. “Is that where you ended up, Thorin?” Seeing Thorin’s rather shamefaced nod, he went on, “No wonder you wouldn’t tell me where you got the medical attention!”

“Did Uncle really throw up on you?” broke in Kíli incredulously.     

Bilbo nodded. “Indeed he did. And almost ruined a heirloom carpet – and then you and your brother seemed intent on finishing the job when you burst into my home and spilled food on it!” Bilbo glowered for good effect, and all three of the Durin males shrunk a little. Bilbo sniffed. “It was not Thorin’s finest hour. His kingly dignity was in shatters.”

Thorin rolled his eyes. “Well, it’s not my fault that it’s hard to look kingly when covered in vomit!”

Bilbo laughed and leaned into Thorin’s side. “To be fair, you very nearly pulled it off.”

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Thorin didn’t know how Bilbo could be so quick with his hands. He had returned from the markets with Balin earlier than expected, and with a few hours left before dinner, had quietly suggested to Bilbo that they retire to their room for some private time, a suggestion to which the hobbit had been quite amenable to. As soon as the door had been closed and latched, Thorin had found himself simply jumped by his hobbit, a hot mouth on his, small hands gripping his hair, and legs wrapped around his waist. Surprised at Bilbo’s urgency, but not unhappy with it, Thorin had drawn them towards the bed. By the time he got them there, a good portion of his clothes were on the floor by Bilbo’s hands – an impressive feat for one unused to the complicated dwarven fastenings, and especially so for all the other places Bilbo’s hands had managed to be.

After several minutes of kissing (which left Bilbo pleasantly red-lipped and panting, but with marks from Thorin’s beard on his face which would likely be commented on later), Thorin attempted to move Bilbo into a position more amenable to the relief of the tension which had been building in his groin. He was surprised when Bilbo resisted.

Bilbo gave Thorin a shark’s smile that in other circumstances would have seemed quite out of place. “I think, my king, that today we will try something … different.”

Thorin’s eyebrows drew in. “Do you want to…?”

The smile was back. “Yes.” Almost immediately, Thorin found himself with his stomach pressing against the cool linen of the sheets, small hobbit fingers and a small hobbit mouth soon bringing almost painful pleasure.

The jokes at dinner time would be worth it.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Filler fluff with a dash of smut, but still good. You see Thorin being more “cutesy” here, but I’d say that he is much more of a softie in private, when he doesn’t have to be seen as kingly. He can joke around with the Company a little, but I think he worries about overfamiliarity with them.  
> And I promised my prompter bottom!Thorin sex, so here it is. Enjoy  
> A few clarifiers: We have absolutely no idea who Dís’ husband is or what he’s doing while the Quest is going on. I’m going by the popular fanon theory that he died while the boys were young and so Thorin had to step up as a surrogate dad. This is why he’s so close to the boys.   
> Thorin’s directionally challenged-ness is movieverse only – common fanon theory is either that many dwarves, being used to living belowground, have trouble on the surface, and/or that it’s just one skill that Thorin can’t master.


	11. Chapter 11

Bilbo was afraid.

The Company had reached the guard-camp outside the Mountain with the fading of evening’s light, and now, some hours later, were recovering somewhat from their recent escapades. Upon their arrival at the camp, some of their party had immediately gone to sleep in various corners, while the rest, too worked up to sleep, planned. Bilbo readily admitted (at least to himself) that the stone of the guardroom’s floor did not look overly appetizing as a sleeping area. Though it might be better if he could cuddle up with Thorin the way Nori and Dwalin were doing, sharing blankets and body heat and comfort.

            But no. Thorin’s new manner was frankly frightening, and Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be near him in this state. He knew that he did not have the only hold on Thorin’s heart – he was a king, and his kingdom had to come first over nearly any personal concerns, after all – but this was different. Lust for the treasure, the gold, the Arkenstone, they were all stewing in Thorin’s mind like rot eating away at an apple. Bilbo feared for Thorin, for himself, for the Quest. He feared that Thorin would do something totally untoward, something that he wouldn’t be able to recover from. His current behavior, while unusual, was not so bad that it could not be fixed with a few heartfelt apologies, especially to his nephews, who were comparatively unharmed by the goldlust and had borne the brunt of Thorin’s anger several times for trying to get him to talk about other things.

Bilbo was afraid.

oOoOoOoOoOo

When he is hanging over the battlements, being shaken like a rabbit, Bilbo is so far past terror that he has a surprising moment of clarity.

_This is the end._

 The end of hope, the end of happiness, the end of what-might-have-been. The look in Thorin’s eyes … despair, loss, hurt, anger, all commingled with the grief of a lover betrayed.

_So this is the price of the Arkenstone, of peace. So be it, though it near to breaks my heart._

 oOoOoOoOoOo

Bilbo wept until tears were gone, and then sat, shaking, outside the tent where his beloved lay, growing cold and stiff. _Pain and death, death and pain._ Thorin was gone, gone where he could not follow.

Nori and Dwalin approached him after a while. Disheveled but miraculously unharmed except for minor wounds, they sat next to him silently. Dwalin seemed to be in shock, and Nori, hair a frightful mess, clung to his husband in an unusual show of affection, clearly relieved that they had both survived the day without any major injuries. After some time, Nori seemed to come to himself somewhat, and nudged Dwalin to make him stand. Nori looked intently at Bilbo for a long moment, and then grabbed his arm, motioning for him to follow. The three made their way to a food tent (which, along with the healing tents, had been the first things set up by the ever-practical dwarves after the battle), ate, and then collapsed in one of the nearby sleeping areas.

0O0O0O0O0O0

            It was springtime, late enough in the season that one might consider calling it early summer. Bilbo had retuned in summer, and had spent a good deal of the its winding-down, as well as all of autumn and a goodly portion of winter, attempting to get his affairs in order. It was slow going, but progress was being made. His cousins despaired of him (except for the Tooks and the children), his neighbors (saving the good-natured Gamgees) looked at him like he’d grown an extra head, and his lawyer happily soaked up all the extra fees that he received for his assistance.

In short, things were going back to normal – at least, on the outside. Bilbo found that Gandalf was correct – he had not returned unchanged from the Quest. His adventure had woken his bravery, his sense of adventure, his wishes for new sights. But it had brought pain, despair, loss. What affected Bilbo the most now was appreciation for the comforts of home – the kettle on the fire, sizzling bacon, a warm bed, and all the pocket-handkerchiefs he could ever want. And if he was painfully reminded of what he had lost, he knew that it had been worth it. Then he would carefully finger a strangely-made knife that he kept at his belt, or a pair of arrowheads worked into a windchime right by the kitchen window, or a square ring kept on a chain with a round in his pocket, and sigh.

            Hearing his kettle sing, Bilbo hurried to the kitchen. He had made scones, and put the kettle on so he could enjoy a cuppa (liberally splashed with brandy to chase away morbid thoughts) with them while his baked goods were hot. He had set out his teacup and was preparing to pour when he heard a thump at his door. It sounded almost like – there it was again! And if that noise wasn’t dwarf-boots against his doorframe, he was a fish. He’d know that ungodly noise anywhere. It looked like some of the Company had taken him up on his offer of a place to stay – and, in fact, had arrived just in time for tea. Bilbo hurried to the door, opening it to find … a near-exact copy of Thorin Oakenshield.

“So … this is the burglar,” the stranger replied in a voice that was low by most standards but lighter by far than most of the Company’s (except for Ori and Kíli, that is, who as far as Bilbo could tell were still in the last vestiges of Dwarven puberty when the Quest had started). The figure humphed loudly, and looked around Bilbo’s smial skeptically. “Dwalin said that this place was easy to find. I lost my way … twice.”

Bilbo’s jaw dropped. _What’s going on? This can’t be …_

Bilbo’s resolved firmed, and he looked his erstwhile guest in the eye. “If I may ask, who are you?” He purposely avoided using gendered pronouns, remembering a few choice conversations with Balin about how dwarven females travelled abroad, as well as with Fíli and Kíli about their mother, the remarkable Lady Dís.  

“I am Dís, daughter of Thráin. I believe you made the acquaintance of several members of my family?”

Bilbo bowed deeply. “It is wonderful to meet you at last, Lady Dís. It was my honor and my privilege to travel with your kin.” Bilbo gestured at his foyer. “May I offer you some tea? There’s a fresh pot on the fire.”

Dís’ smile was almost identical to that that had so often graced her younger son’s face. “It would be my pleasure, Master Baggins.”

_Finis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, that’s all for this one, people. It kind of angsted out of control there at the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all. This also exists on my ffn account, but there are lots of people who seem to favour one over the other, so here it is. Enjoy.


End file.
